The Hiatus
by Locketta
Summary: After escaping the Falls, Holmes must cope with his solitary life. Holmes/Adler. Rated M for later chapters. Eventual lemons.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

><p>Holmes wearily perched himself under a supported, angled slab of rock. The climb was an exhausting one, and for a few moments, he was sure that Moriarty's voice had called at him from the wet abyss below. There were times when he thought that he was gone then and there, but he continuously regained his footing somehow, through all the pain striking through every muscle of his body, and blood coating his shaking, stinging hands.<p>

However, the wear and tear upon his body didn't even strike his mind once again during his position under the rock. He was afraid to think about it, but before this day, he was uneasy at the thought of the possible outcomes. When he escaped the area, he knew that he left Sherlock Holmes behind. As of then, he was no longer a person to the rest of the world.

There was a scuttling noise below that caught his attention.

Dear God. He had forgotten, just for a moment, he forgot...

**"**_Holmes!_**" **cried Doctor Watson. "_Holmes!_**"**

The echoes of his anguishing calls filled Holmes' ear. In instinct, he began to shout back.

**"**_Wa_-" he choked out, before resigning back, desolately watching his friend frantically search for him.

He had found the note. He had written it genuinely, with little doubt of his demise, but in the near-end of its path, fate had altered its course. And now Watson was reading his solemn farewell.

When he lowered the note, his hand covered his tearful face, and he was shaking in despair. The heart that Sherlock Holmes was accused of never having had sunk down to his gut.

He watched Watson disperse, then return with Lestrade and a few other familiar, woeful faces. They investigated in the most inefficient and sympathetic matter his death, causing Holmes to merely smile at their usual efforts. When they had departed, two shots was fired in his direction. He didn't need time to think; one of Moriarty's cronies had witnessed their leader's end, and was set on avenging him. Holmes made haste and ran ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and reached Florence a week later, knowing with all certainty that the world thought him dead.

Sigerson. Hum.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

><p>A month had passed since the event. Sherlock Holmes had previously put all his possessions under his brother Mycroft's protection, and regularly sought after the latest occurrences around Baker Street, and Scotland Yard. It was the shots that made him realize that the game was still on. And it wouldn't end until someone made a mistake. He would have to wait.<p>

He did admire the challenge, but couldn't help but feel an unbearable loneliness, now. In the comfort of a traveller's tent, he sat down in front of a desk, and lifted a pen. Staring at the blank page before him, he wondered what he could say. He obviously couldn't write as his dead persona or Sigerson. No, he supposed not. He placed the pen down and walked outside the tent, where he was greeted by a man in a beekeeping suit, with bees curiously hovering over a small bit of honey in his left hand.

"Well, Sigerson," he said, "isn't this a lovely day? The sky is blue, the wind is calm, the grass is green, and the bees are happy."

"I must thank you again for taking me into your confidence, Mr. Woodrow."

"I don't deserve such a title; call me Woodrow. It's a pleasure to have you be my apprentice. You are quite the intelligent learner, with an incredible memory."

"I suppose I observe well."

"I'll say! What did you do before all this?" said Woodrow.

"I was a chemist."

Woodrow gave a hearty chuckle. "Well, I'll be. I'm not surprised at all."

"And why is that?"

"'Member all those formulas, and you know you're a smart one."

"I should think it's quite simple. I could even teach you the entire basics in no more than an hour, if you wish."

Another laugh. "Yes, you're a keen one. And no, that is not necessary, I find that I know all that I wish to know right now, and knowing about anything else would be a waste of memory."

"Like the solar system?"

"The what?"

"Understandable," said Holmes, nodding.

Woodrow blinked. "Well, I don't know what you're talking about, but I for one do know that those hives are full of honey, and could spare us a few jars."

He turned around and looked at the hives, swarming with bees.

"Quick, Sigerson!" he snapped. "Put on your suit and fetch me my smoker!"

Holmes froze. The situation twisted his memories around, and an image of him ordering Watson to fetch his revolver appeared in his mind. He shook it off, and hurried off to the tent opposite to Woodrow's tent to fetch the smoker, which was three inches to the right of the left edge of the chair which was facing the north-east corner of the tent, in the left corner that you pass when you first enter the tent.

Although he admired the efforts involved in beekeeping, and the surprisingly calming effect it has on the mind, nothing could prevent him from observing every detail so much that the very thought of stealthily creeping through the dark of the night with Watson made him feel griefstricken.

Thirty-nine days.

"Sigerson!" beckoned Woodrow, from outside the tent. "What's taking so long?"

Holmes threw the smoker out the tent door, and went to his tent, and pulled out his hanging suit from the left wall.

* * *

><p>As the days passed by, the sleepless nights grew longer. Dreams turned into nightmares, and the images of his previous life remained in his head for periods of up to hours without end.<p>

The bright morning of the fifty-third day turned into the clouded afternoon. As the week wasn't going to be an active one, and Woodrow was going to Venice to see a friend, Holmes decided to travel to Milan, and spend the week there. The Barber of Seville was opening at La Scala there the next night- he was not going to miss it.

In the meantime, he had booked a room at the inn, and made his way through the crowd in the streets. The noise was tearing his mind apart. He needed to think. He needed to be alone, somewhere. He walked up to the newspaper boy, took a new edition and gave him a few coins.

"Sir, you paid me an extra-"

"The extra one is for if you can tell me where the nearest peaceful park is," said Holmes.

The boy adjusted his hat and pointed along the street. "Follow the road, then turn left the first chance you get, and then when the road turns right, keep walking along. You'll soon end up next to a very lovely lake, sir! Mama takes me there sometimes."

"Thank you, child," said Holmes, patted the boy's head, and wandered off down the street.

He followed the boy's instructions to the letter, and eventually ended up walking along the clear grass, alongside a lake, hands in his pockets, memories flowing back yet again. He flapped the newspaper and read the headline.

**MAN FOUND DEAD! POLICE BAFFLED!**

Holmes raised an eyebrow and turned the page, reading how they found a man at the bottom of a lake east of Milan. The man is unidentified, and authorities say he has been dead for approximately a month.

He looked out at the lake before him, using the supposedly similar scenery as a simulation, imagining the possibilities of the event.

He shut his eyes and threw the newspaper in the water. Could this be his fellow player's mistake? No, it couldn't be, not this soon. And definitely not this mechanism of death. However, it would do good to inquire for further information. If it didn't assist him... Well, he could always anonymously give them a few tips.

The clouds thickened, and Holmes had found a bench to sit on. He pulled from his pocket a notepad and a pen.

"'To Dr. Watson'," he mumbled, as he wrote with an alternate style of handwriting that he was able to create during his free time. His eyes began to slightly sting as he thought of all the things he wish he could say, the things he could confess, but he blinked the feeling away.

"'I truly wish I could thank you in person,'" Holmes muttered under his voice, "'but at the moment I am unable to...'"

After he was done writing his incognito letter, his eyes ran across the paper a few times. In the frustrating knowledge that either with disguised handwriting, or not, it could never be safely sent. He let out a cry and ripped up the paper, tossing it into the lake, as it began to rain.

* * *

><p>The inn that he was staying in had a homely feeling. It was almost as if he were back in England. Almost...<p>

It was about dusk, as he sat down on a rather uncomfortable chair, his eyes drifting along the paragraphs of a provided book; a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's works. The sole thing that interested him was the utter madness of the characters, and their incredible motives for murder. Not to mention the extreme mechanisms of death to each smitten personality.

After the hour hand of the clock inclined forty-five degrees, Holmes' ears perceived a yell from across the corridor, followed by a loud thump. He swung his book over his shoulder and stood up, then began walking towards the door, as the noise became more violent. He opened the door, and the thumps and screams grew louder. He previously noted from the keys available in their respected boxes at the lobby that there was only he and one other on this particular floor. Ironically, he had chosen this floor for it had the least amount of people on it, and that there would hopefully be more peace and silence resulting from this.

He quietly walked towards the shaking door at the end of the corridor. When he was an arm's length away, he heard and felt the thump of a large object being slammed against the door. He looked down, and blood oozed its way through the crack of air between the floor and the door. Then he heard a scraping sound, and light saw its way through the door, as if the object had been dragged away.

Instinctively, he jiggled the doorknob, and, when that failed to work, he took a few paces back, and put force into opening the door.

The door flew open, and his eyes widened when he saw that the room was empty, and that blood-stained curtains billowed by the open window. He rushed towards the window and looked outside, but saw nothing.

He turned around, and realized the severity of the situation.

The room was utterly pristine, save for the forced door. The blood that was once there was no longer. In disbelief, he lingered in the room, inspecting every changed object. He was so engaged in his investigation, that he did not notice sooner that he was being interrupted by security, and a horrified patron. Trying to conceal the horror on his face, he apologized for the intrusion, and offered to pay any expenses, along with a fine for breaking and entering.

When he was back to his room, he poured himself a glass of water, picked up his book, and placed the glass on the desk beside his chair. Could he really have just imagined it all? Was it possible?

He sat back down on his chair and found his spot in the book, trying to gather his thoughts.

"'The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not onwards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion," he quoted, staring at the glass of water, and immediately thought of the Reichenbach Falls. Sighing, he placed his head in his right hand.

It would be best to think of tomorrow. The Barber of Seville, at La Scala.

He indeed thought. And realization came to his mind. He did not have the appropriate attire for such an occasion. Oh, dear, God. First thing tomorrow, he would have to do the unthinkable. His eyes fluttered to the drawer in which he kept the money that his brother had given him. Yes, he supposed he would either have to commit to it in order to respectively be a part of the theatre's audience, or commit to nothing.

Shopping.

_Fascinating._

* * *

><p>Later, at the end of the security officer's duty hours, at the entrance of the inn, he explained to his friend the unusual event.<p>

"Oi, but y'know what really bugged me?" said the officer.

"Wot?" said his friend.

"'is face looked familiar. When 'e saw me for the first time, 'is face was different. Then it changed."

"Oh, yeh?"

"Looked a bit like, well, I shou'n't dare to just assume, but-"

"Yeh?"

"'e looked a bit like a person I saw in the newspapers a while ago, bein' dead and all that."

The officer's friend laughed and struck a hearty blow to his back. "Oi, you've 'ad too much to drink, I fancy."

"Must 'ave," said the officer, shaking off the crazy idea. "Now c'mon, Charlie, the bar's goin' t'be closed soon."

* * *

><p>The dawn greeted the world with an orange sky and a chilling wind. The inn's shadow blanketed the peaceful, grassy area hidden behind a fence. Holmes had discovered this small piece of land one day while mentally measuring the block when he felt something was slightly off. It was quite nice and secluded; a wonderful place to settle one's thoughts.<p>

The newspapers were uninteresting, and all news from Mycroft had been of Watson's medical career. It felt as though he was being mocked through paper.

Usually, temporary departures seldom affected him at all; he had abandoned his friend before, sometimes for a couple weeks without word. At worst, it would be a few years before he could reveal himself to the world again, but nevertheless, it would happen. He knew that his opponent would make the wrong move, sometime.

But the endless streams of guilt continued to surround his mind with that one memory of Watson's cries of despair. It seemed that now and until this facade would be over, he would always automatically associate moments in the day with memories of his past life. He couldn't help but have a feeling of betrayal that sometimes brought him to such a depressing state of mind that he would have to go and resort to cocaine. He often wondered in regret if it was worth it, since it only made things worse, how the memory of Watson trying to wean him off of his drug use would entwine with the memory of Watson's tears at the Falls, shortly after the effects of the drug would wear off. If only he could describe in words how incredible his friend was. The more he thought about it - and he thought about it often-, the more he realized how much he didn't deserve to be his friend.

At the present time, it was a nice day, and as he analyzed the songbirds' songs, he found that it kept his mind away from the distractions of woe. Sometimes he would whistle his own little tune to a songbird that would perch itself on the fence, and receive a melodious response.

In addition to the music of the songbirds, the sound of a choir echoed down the street from the nearby church. Immediately the choral music subtly reminded him of the musical event that he would attend later that night.

He would still need to purchase the proper attire. And that would required being tailored.

Damn it.

He felt a bird perch itself on his head, and use it for a washroom.

... Damn it.

"_Amen!_" sang the choir.

* * *

><p>She was just about to give up. If it weren't for his persistence – and his money – , then she would have just left him at the doorstep long ago. But after his generous offer of payment, she felt forced in order to be known as a sane businesswoman.<p>

"Come on, now, don't be shy, let us see that suit of yours," she said, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

"It looks silly," said Holmes, from behind the dressing curtain.

"Don't be a hassle, now. Let's see." She waited in silence for a few seconds, then realizing that it wasn't going to happen.

"Sir, if you would be so kind as to come out from the curtain..." No answer. "_Now_."

Hesitantly, Holmes walked out from the curtain in a pinstriped suit, and a ridiculously tall top hat.

"See? It isn't so bad."

"Are you sure this is how it's supposed to look?"

The tailor rolled her eyes. "Darling, it looks smashing on you. And yes, it's supposed to look that way. It's the latest fashion. Don't poke the buttons."

Holmes put his hands to his sides. "It feels uncomfortable."

"Honey, us women have to endure wearing as many as eight layers of waist-cinching, air-restricting pieces of clothing every day. Now try and complain about comfort to my face."

She noticed her customer giving her a look. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Merely observing, I assure you, it's nothing," said he.

"Observing what?"

"You. I already said, it's nothing that you don't already know."

"Oh?"

"For instance, I can tell by the pale ring of flesh around your finger that you have been recently divorced – yes, divorced. In addition to this, I have deduced that you were once an upper-middle class woman who drifted into the lower-middle class after your ex-husband took the money and the house, and left you for a woman who wore rather less than eight layers of clothing every day."

The tailor's jaw dropped. "How-"

"I think I like the other suit better. Shall I go get it? Yes, I think so."

Holmes went behind the curtain once more, and in moments, came out in another suit, smiling at the tailor, who had been staring at him blankly ever since his spontaneous deduction.

"Your mustache is gone," she pointed out. Holmes' hand rushed to his upper lip.

"Well, clumsy me. Do excuse me," he said, and went back behind the curtain. "Hello! Here it is." With this, he walked back out, with his mustache. "It really is quite tedious. Perhaps I'll get rid of it for tonight. Well, anyways, here is the fee. Thank you for your consultation. Good day."

The tailor watched as he strolled out the door.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

><p>The overture began with triumphant chords and a delicate phrase. Then came in the french horn and the strings.<p>

Now was the time when he could put it all behind him, for a few hours. As the eager faces around him smiled with anticipation of the opening curtains, he... faded into the crowd.

The curtains opened with a round of applause from the audience. Here entered a band of musicians, and Lindoro, secretly the young Count Almaviva in disguise. They began serenading Rosina, to no avail, outside her window. As Largo al Factotum began to start, Holmes shut his eyes and let himself become absorbed in the music of the successful barber, Figaro.

All'idea di Quel Metallo began, and for nine minutes, Figaro and the Count plan how Rosina could love the Count for himself and not his money. Then the scene came with Rosina's cavatina, Una Voce Poco Fa.

The strings and woodwinds played their intro. Then at the first note that Rosina sang, Holmes' eyes opened wide, and stared at the actress.

He looked at his playbill.

**"'**Rosina'," he mouthed, as he read. "'Diana Desmond'?"

As she continued to sing, Holmes' eyes never ceased to follow her.

_Ah, the first old face I've seen in a while, _he thought.

Then he laid back on his seat with a smile on his face, as Rosina sang her cadenza. Her angelic voice hadn't changed after all these years.

As the opera went on, Sherlock Holmes applauded a little harder at the end of her arias.

When it was over, at the curtain call, it was hard for him to not applaud louder than anyone else when Miss Diana Desmond took her bow.

Then, out of chance, she caught his eye. They both froze for a moment and their faces turned a shade paler, but she soon continued smiling and thanking the audience for the flowers, and Holmes soon continued clapping as he did, but was now in grave fear knowing that at least one other person in the world knew he was alive. Could she be as trustworthy as his brother?

Before the applause entirely died down, he left his seat.

* * *

><p>The performance was a brilliant success. Diana Desmond was crowded with flowers on the way to her dressing room, and her room was practically filled with them, as well. She spent the next half hour reading the notes sent to her.<p>

**"'**I've never seen a woman whose beautiful voice was a match for her beautiful face'," she read. "Hah. How many did you get, Elsie?"

**"**Alas, only seven tonight-!" said Elsie Klein, dramatically placing her hand on her forehead, and giggling.

**"**For a role such as Berta, that is an extreme accomplishment, my dear," said Miss Desmond, grinning and putting her notes into a drawer.

Elsie Klein yawned. "I think it's best if I go off. Mr. Klein will be waiting for my return," she said. "Congratulations on your first performance, Diana. You were absolutely marvelous."

**"**Thank you, Elsie. Goodnight."

**"**Goodnight."

The door was shut.

She sighed, picked a flower from one of the many vases, and plucked the petals off one by one.

After five minutes, there was a colorful puddle of petals on the floor.

In the darkness, she heard a noise from the doorway. She turned. A rose was shoved under the door, and a violin from the orchestra pit began to play outside.

**"**That song..." she said quietly.

The violin swelled the song into its peak, and then died down.

**"**It was a lovely performance, Miss _Diana Desmond_. One of your finest," said the voice of Holmes. "But if you will allow me entrance, we have a much more important matter to discuss."

Diana breathed heavily and hesitantly unlocked the door.

**"**And if you don't mind, I would much rather address you by your real name," said Holmes.

She grit her teeth as she pulled the door open, and hissed in air when their eyes met, face to face.

**"**Miss Irene Adler," said Holmes, tipping his hat.

**"**Mister Sherlock Holmes," said she, not believing what she was seeing.

**"**The name's Sigerson, m'lady," said he, pulling a cockney accent and changing his mannerisms as he tugged her inside the room, shutting the door. "And will be for a while."

**"**Sigerson?" laughed Irene Adler. "I saw the newspapers a while ago, it was everywhere!"

Holmes put the violin on the table. "You musn't say a word about this. To _anyone. _You are, I believe, besides my brother, the only person who knows."

**"**You have my word."

**"**Now," said he, taking her hand and guiding her to a chair. "Tell me; why did you have to change your lovely name to 'Diana Desmond'?"

Irene Adler took off her hat and placed it on her lap, sighing while fiddling with the white feathers. "Ever since my husband died, I had been followed."

**"**Followed?" Holmes held her hands in his.

**"**By men," she added. "For their own intentions, if you understand."

Holmes withdrew his hands. "I... understand."

**"**I found that by changing my name, where I live, and altering my usual look, I would manage to live a peaceful life once more. I came back to the opera house just recently to add income. This was my first performance as Diana Desmond. You still haven't forgotten me, after all this time?"

**"**Never."

**"**I find it curious that your friend still hasn't published an account of our little battle of wits, yet."

Holmes was about to respond, when Irene Adler added: "Ah- I know why, it is because I had beaten you, isn't it? You don't wish to deteriorate your reputation?"

**"**The accounts that Dr. Watson publishes are solely up to his own judgement," said Sherlock Holmes.

**"**Dr. Watson, that's his name. You said I was the only one who knows of your hiatus? I'm confident that he misses you dearly. Why not tell him?"

**"**The world needs to believe I am dead, for now. The rest of the game is being played, and my strategy will benefit me in the long term," said Holmes. "From now on I have an eye on England. But at the moment, I must ask you; how did you recognize me from afar? I don't believe you've seen me ever not in disguise, not even as you see me, now."

**"**As an actor myself, I can see the face behind the mask. I've seen you in disguise twice before, but I noted the distinct features in both disguises that remained either similar or the same. Your facial characteristics have been embedded into my memory, I suppose. I may see you now in lower-middle class attire for such an occasion, and hear you with a different accent, but however, you're still the exact same Sherlock Holmes to me. Am I still the same Irene Adler to you?"

**"**You and your angelic voice haven't aged a day since I heard you sing in your home from the front garden," said Sherlock Holmes, making Irene Adler smirk. "And I believe-" he added, taking out his old pocketwatch and opening it, "- yes, I do. I still have the sovereign that you had given me."

**"**Hah, oh, I do admire this, really, I do," said the flushed singer, "but I still can't believe the coincidence of you being here."

**"**I did not know you would be here, I assure you," said Holmes. "You said your husband died. May I ask when and how?"

**"**Oh." Miss Adler looked down at her feet. "Well, it was about a month ago."

**"**A month?"

**"**Yes. I wouldn't wish to bring the memory back," she said. "You must understand."

Holmes nodded and squeezed his hands. "Yes. I do."

**"**_Holmes!" cried Doctor Watson. "Holmes!"_**  
><strong>_The echoes of his anguishing calls filled Holmes' ear. In instinct, he began to shout back._**  
>"<strong>_Wa-" he choked out, before resigning back, desolately watching his friend frantically search for him._

**"**Ah, I can tell by your expression," said Irene Adler, as she lifted Sherlock Holmes' chin up. "You miss him."

**"**I have no comment on that," he said, moving his face away from her hand.

**"**You do. Have you ever wondered if you've finally gone too far?"

**"**If I reveal myself," said Holmes, slowly, "Watson, Mrs. Hudson... they would all be in lethal danger."

Irene Adler watched as Holmes' poker-faced expression twitched a few times. She snatched a piece of paper and a pen, and pushed them towards Holmes.

**"**Write to them. Incognito."

**"**I've tried-"

**"**Let me, then," she said, and pulled the paper and pen back to her, placing the pen on her lips, thinking of what to say.

**"'**To Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson, 221b Baker Street'" She looked at Holmes' face. "'I am sorry.'"

Sherlock Holmes watched her as she placed the letter in an envelope, along with a rose from a vase.

**"**Would you like to do to the honor of sealing this letter's fate forever?" she said, handing him the wax holder and the mould. "Don't worry, the mould doesn't have a design on it, just a circle. They can't track you. Besides, the handwriting is obviously from a woman."

**"**How do you know that?" said Holmes, inspecting the mould.

**"**I've read Dr. Watson's stories about you. When you noted handwriting, I became interested, and studied more upon that subject. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, you are an inspiration."

**"**Well, I am flattered. But I can't send this. It's too ambiguous," said he, and placed it in his pocket. He sighed and looked at the clock above my dresser. "Now, I must be leaving you. Goodnight, Miss Desmond." He stood up and walked towards the door, taking the violin.

**"**That's it? You just come in and say that I can't tell anyone that I've seen you?" said Irene Adler, standing up. "At least tell me where you're staying."

**"**We cannot be seen together," said Holmes. "It could provoke suspicion."

**"**Then I won't see you as Diana Desmond, or Irene Adler. I'll see you as the young boy who passed by your residence years ago, wishing you goodnight."

Holmes hesitated, but then wrote down on a piece of paper on the table the address of the inn.

**"**Goodnight, Miss Irene Adler." And with this, he departed.

**"**Goodnight, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>The night was black and clear, but cold and windy nevertheless, as he headed back to the inn, with a little smile on his face that could challenge the Mona Lisa.<p>

It really was a remarkable coincidence. A little too much so.

26... 27... 28... 29... 30... 31... 32... 33... 34...

Well, the stairs have stayed the same. 17 steps each flight. No. No, he was not going to think about 221- No. He had enough of this endless torture.

He unlocked the door to his room and rushed inside to the bedroom. He knelt in front of the drawer beside his bed, and anxiously pulled it open.

He found a note.

"'To Sherlock, from Mycroft-' Of course he would take my solution. Just like the brother he is. That _kind, loving _brother."

With a snarl, he flapped open the note.

After a few moments of his eye catching the page, he dropped the note onto the floor.

* * *

><p>As the sun rose the next day, Dr. John Watson stepped in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie. His face altered from time to time, from a neutral expression to a brief, tear-stricken gaze of woe, as he put on a black suit that he had hoped, ever since the previous month, he would never have to wear again.<p>

When he took that first step out of his house, to that clear, breezy day, complete with singing birds, it only took a moment before his face was twisted with the utmost sadness. He had lost everything dear to him; everything except his former landlady, whom he suspected would become just as selfish and leave him, soon, as well.

The sound of horses alerted him of the coming coach. He attempted to collect himself, wiping the tears from his eyes, before the coach wheeled around the corner of the road and rolled to a stop before him.

"Morning," greeted the driver, who was dressed similarly.

"Morning," Watson weakly replied, stepping into the coach, along with two others; a sobbing old woman and her partner, patting her on the back.

Watson hung his head, trying to conceal his pink eyes. It was all his fault. If he had only been home, if he had only turned away that one patient and seen her for only a short amount of time... It wouldn't have to be like this.

It was always because of him. If only he had recognized the building blocks of a trap when it faced him at the Falls, if only he had sprinted a bit faster, if only he had stayed with Holmes.

He was a doctor, and yet the people closest to him have died because of his doltishness. He didn't deserve to live.

The service was too much pain to handle. The very moment he removed his wedding ring and placed it in her casket, the overwhelming anguish made his eyes push out every tear they could. The guilt, all the guilt! How many jugs did his tears fill? The next time he would make yet another fatal mistake, he would be _sure_ to observe more _carefully_.

"I am truly sorry, Watson," many had said.

"May the storm clear, now," some did.

But he heard the dead, surrounding them in the cemetery, screaming at him. It was all his fault.

When the mourners had departed, he gave the grave one last look, before he returned to the house.

When the coach went around the bend, he saw what looked like the figure of Mrs. Hudson, with what seemed like a note in her hand.

He paid the coachman and hopped off, seeing her pale, long-suffering self, wrapped in a shawl, for the first time in weeks.

"I am sorry for coming into your life in such a delicate time," she said, "but I was eating breakfast, when this note was pushed under my door. I looked outside to see who sent it, only to find a child running away from the house. It is addressed to both of us."

She passed the note over to him, and tightened the shawl's wrap around herself.

After reading the short note, flipping it over a couple times, and inspecting it, he placed it back into Mrs. Hudson's shaking hands. "'I am sorry.' Obviously a woman's writing." He paused and observed her condition. Instantly, his emotions overtook him, and he placed an arm around her, leading her inside the house. "Come inside, Mrs. Hudson. For once, I think I will make you a nice cup of tea."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you kindly, Dr. Watson."

He led her to a chair, and started the kettle.

"The one thing about that note that I find curious," he said, "is that the sender used 221b as the address, and not this house, since obviously it is referring to my bereavement.

There was a pause as the two of them considered the possibilities.

"Perhaps she was a fan of your stories, and heard the news? Nowadays it seems as though everyone knows the address, especially after-"

"-Yes, Mrs. Hudson," interrupted Dr. Watson. "That would make sense, if only I knew why she had included your name."

"Could have been just politeness," said Mrs. Hudson. "It's rather hard to come by, these days."

"Indeed."

The kettle's whistle developed and quickly began roaring. Watson lifted it off and poured two cups, giving one to Mrs. Hudson.

"Sugar?" he offered.

"No, no thank you."

He sat down on the chair beside her, blew his tea cooler, and sipped. The silence had an empty feel, with a void that longed to be fulfilled. Where were the rows? Where was that smell of tobacco that pierced their noses on a daily bases? Where was the pile of newspapers lying around on the floor?

When he looked over to Mrs. Hudson, he knew that she was thinking similarly. The moments flew by, their nerves neither rising nor lowering, until Dr. Watson realized that he was sitting in Mary's chair, and that Mrs. Hudson was sitting in what used to be Holmes' chair, which he had brought to the new house as memorabilia. His small choking gasp caught Mrs. Hudson's attention. In seconds, she realized the situation.

Watson placed down his cup of tea, and looked down at his feet, shaking like a leaf. Mrs. Hudson motherly placed a hand on Watson's back.

"I know," she said, and put down her cup of tea as well, as Watson began to sob again, his shoulders fidgeting as he cried into his hands. "I know."

He turned around and embraced her. "Mrs. Hudson-"

"Shh," she whispered, as he buried his face into her shoulder. "I miss him, too. And right now, I am positive that he is looking after your dear Mary."

The tears began to stream down her face as well. "And when my time runs out, I will tell him how much you miss him. I wouldn't be surprised that after doing so, he would ask me, in his usual tone, to clean up the dreadful mess that he's made since. I can't even begin to imagine it."

Smiling and sobbing at the same time, Watson lifted his face off from her soaked shawl. "Dear Mrs. Hudson, you're irreplaceable."

"Why don't you come back to Baker Street for a while? Keep a fragile woman company?"

"Mrs. Hudson, never, at any time consider yourself fragile for even a moment."

"I'll take that as a yes to my invitation. During the time we'll have together, perhaps I can teach you how to make a proper cup of tea. This is horrid- do forgive me."

"No, you're right. It's disgusting," he admitted, looking at the cups on the desk in front of them. "I'll begin packing."

* * *

><p>He had to do it. It was the only way he could even slightly relieve himself of the loneliness. This time, he was there for his friend. Perhaps now, he could continue on his quest.<p>

Walking through the streets of Milan, he bought a newspaper and strolled back to that park. It was quite a nice park, and it made him regret that he had to return to Florence in a few days, resuming his beekeeping apprenticeship.

He sat on a bench by the lake and opened the newspaper to the agony column. Nothing interesting, yet again.

"'Murdered man remains to be unidentified; case is on the verge of being put on the shelf.' Hah, not if I can help it. Hello- 'Insanity strikes Milan, cause unknown.'"

With a grin that was probably wider than it should have been, Sherlock Holmes pulled out his pen and pad, scribbling on a page: 'Dear brother Mycroft, you need not send your confederates out to forge my rooms for any artificial stimulation- I have my stimulant here!'


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

><p>Just like before, the game was afoot. His brother wouldn't have to take his watchful eye away from England, nor suffer the torture of stagnation.<p>

It might not have been the robbery of the Bank of England, but it was something. And certainly an interesting something. It would keep him busy for at least a week, he was sure.

"_Dear Sherlock_

_Have fun,_

_Mycroft"_

* * *

><p>The roads were busy with the sound of horses, and street sellers were lined up on either side of the roads, all marketing their equally useless and overpriced items. That wasn't the point, however. The point was that people bought the garbage anyways.<p>

And where there was merchandise waiting to be sold, there was merchandise waiting to be stolen. And thus rose the purpose of the police.

The biggest joke to a person such as Sherlock Holmes would be, in fact, Scotland Yard. On the other hand, Italy did not have a Scotland Yard to conveniently slip on a banana peel, a puddle, or a pool of marbles every time the job required a run. Holmes was quite eager to see what the equivalent was for Milan. They needed him.

At the local station house, an old man wobbled himself inside with a heavy-looking bag, and a cane. A few officers watched as the man nearly tumbled, two, three, even four times. After the fifth dramatically near-tumble, he mumbled a few indistinct words in a disappointed manner, under his breath, and never showed any signs of clumsiness again.

He limped his way to a sergeant.

"Oh, oh, sergeant," he said huskily, poking at the sergeant's knees, as they were about half as tall as he was, with his ridiculously bent, shaking legs, and his hunched posture.

"What is it, old man?"said the sergeant, sternly looking down at the balding head below.

The old man reached into his heavy bag with some effort, and pulled out a handful of anonymous notes. "I've bin sent these letters, 'ere, and I don't like the look of 'em. See! They're addressed to this location!" he said, waving the notes frantically up into the sergeant's face. "Someone 'as bin sendin' me your mail! All piled up in a heap on my front lawn!"

The sergeant took the bundle of notes and inspected them. "Your name, sir?"

The man straightened up as much as he could, which added about two inches to his height. "Scot Lenyard." This statement caused a snickering fit in the background from the new recruits. "Now, seein' that I went to all the trouble of travelin' – by foot – with my thin, little ol' body, wouldn't it be an admirable act of kindness to give an ol' man a payment for his troubles?" The man's pruney face toothily smiled at the sergeant, sticking his wrinkled hand out.

"Sir," said the sergeant, "I am not permitted to-"

Grin.

"- Honestly, I can't allow-"

Grin.

"Will you kindly stop that, sir?"

"Stop what?" the man said innocently, his face falling.

"That bloody grin!"

"So you don't like happy ol' folk, then, eh?" said the old man, pointing an accusing finger at the sergeant. With a flair of anger, he spun around, hitting the sergeant's knees with the spinning momentum of the heavy bag, and began walking towards the door. "So be it! You'll never 'ear from me again! Terrible service! Terrible!"

And with this, he stormed out through the door, and slammed it shut.

The sergeant scratched his head while looking at the letters in his hand. They were addressed to this station house, yes. Curious how that man with the strange name got them. Ah, well, he looked rather innocent. A bit of an annoying bugger, true, but innocent enough.

He then realized that he was being stared at by a bunch of new recruits.

"Well, what are you looking at?" he roared. "Get back to whatever you were doing!"

* * *

><p>Silently chuckling as he hobbled his way towards the inn, he knew that after three days of investigation, he had solved the case. He already had the pieces, but there were two worrying pieces that seemed as though they would fit with each other. However, looks had always deceived him before and this was no exception. Overall, Sherlock Holmes was confident in his conclusion.<p>

When he looked at the pocket-watches on sale, it reminded him of his time left in Milan. It would be only a couple days more. Unfortunate, really.

"Would you like to buy a pocket-watch, sir?" said the merchant.

"Oh, no, too fancy for the ol' likes of me," he said.

"I don't believe that," said a young boy, walking up to the table.

"And who are you?" said Holmes.

The young boy turned to look at him, and smiled.

Ah. Right, then.

"Frederick Nelson, pleased to make your acquaintance," said the boy, with a tip of the hat. "Now, I insist. Try one on! I think this one would look absolutely dashing..."

"Er- no, please. I must be going."

"Whereabouts?"

"Does it matter to you?"

"Maybe not to myself, but perhaps to another one whom you may know. You looked rather familiar so I thought that I would introduce myself."

Sherlock Holmes smirked in his head. Well, she was persistent.

"Per'aps we could speak more about this in the park nearby," he said. "Much more peaceful."

"I think I know exactly where you mean."

Holmes tipped his hat to the merchant. "Good day to you."

* * *

><p>Once he was certain that they were alone, Sherlock Holmes ripped off his disguise instantly, wiping the makeup off from his face. When he was finished, he dared a glance at the "boy", only to find a bald Irene Adler with half a mustache on. She smiled and tore the rest of the costume off, pushing them all into a handbag.<p>

"How does the Master think I did?" she said, sitting down on a rock by the lake.

"I thought you did it rather well," said Holmes, smiling at the compliment. "However, if I may say, the character you portrayed I think would go better with a slightly more higher voice than the one you used. Other than that, I find no fault."

"That is gratifying praise, indeed, coming from you," said Irene.

"I could say likewise," said Holmes.

Irene Adler smiled. "Feeling better?"

Tilting his head to the side, he raised an eyebrow at her. "What?"

"The homesickness, of course," said she. "Any better, now?"

Holmes looked at his feet for a moment before replying. "There are the waiting periods between action to action, where it all feels like a big blur of inactiveness. But I am not homesick," he rebutted.

"Ah, yes," said Irene Adler, looking up into the sky, as if reading words in the air. "Because your mind 'rebels at stagnation'. You require problems and work. If given the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, you would be in your own proper atmosphere. But in any other occasion, you rely on a seven per-cent solution of... cocaine, I think it is. Which, by the way, I strongly discourage. Did I get it right?"

"Dear Watson," sighed Holmes, sitting down on a rock next to her. "I wonder sometimes if his accounts of our adventures have been of a grave error."

"Well," said Irene, "if he hadn't written your adventures, I would have hardly heard of you again. What a pity that would have been!"

They laughed, and watched the small waves wrestle with eachother. The silence was, in a way, a thousand unspoken words quietly going back and forth. The moment when Irene Adler leaned herself against Holmes, staring into the water, the number suddenly escalated and became two thousand words. While fidgeting to try to get away, Holmes' arm was pulled closer. He sighed as Irene closed her eyes, and seemed to slowly fall asleep on his arm.

After a few minutes of her being slumped against him, he attempted to surreptitiously detach himself from her.

"You seem a bit tense," she said, opening one eye.

"Well, I am being used for a pillow while sitting on a rather hard and uncomfortable rock," said Holmes.

"I do apologize," said Irene, sitting upright.

"No matter," said Holmes.

The silence arose again. This time, there were no words.

Except a few, maybe.

"I'm going in a couple days," said Holmes.

Irene Adler turned sharply to face him. "What? Where?"

"Where I was a week before. At a beekeeping farm in Florence."  
>"Sounds exciting." Irene looked down at the water again. "Must you go?"<p>

"I find beekeeping quite interesting," said Holmes. He looked at her reflected expression in the water, and a second of observation told him her views on the matter. She was, after all, his only real companion at the moment. Could he afford to lose that?

"However," he added, in a tone of voice that made her head perk up, "I suppose I could always pursue the skill at a later period of time."

"I am very glad," said she, with a wide-stretched smile. "Have you found a place to stay? You can't live at an inn forever."

"I'm scheduled to depart from the inn tonight. I was planning to travel and stay at different locations until my weekend would be over, but I suppose that isn't an excellent plan at the moment."

"You could stay with me," said Irene. "Of course, you would have to pay your share of rent, but it's a small fee and a rather large place with an amazing view."

Holmes tucked his knees up, and rested his head on them, considering the offer. A part of him was screaming at him in horror. If he required the assistance, Mycroft would no doubt offer it. But then again, he had already asked for too much assistance from Mycroft. He didn't want to appear that incapable.

"I have a piano that I play there while singing, sometimes, if you don't mind that," added Irene. "And if it helps, I have a Stradivarius violin in the attic that I was given one day as a gift. I would be more than happy to give it to someone who can actually play it."

"Miss Adler," said Holmes, finally standing up and offering her a hand. "It would be a pleasure."

* * *

><p>"This is a very peculiar matter, indeed," said the inspector, at his desk, examining the notes. "And you say the man's name was Scot Lenyard?"<p>

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant.

"This information seems like it was handed to us by the very criminal himself!" shouted the inspector. "It covers everything we've been looking for, and everything we weren't! It's too remarkable!"

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant.

"And you just let him go?" said the inspector, lifting himself off his seat. His voice lowered. "Tell me that you recognized at least one feature of his. The color of his eyes, perhaps?"

"No, sir."

The inspector slammed his fist on the desk. "That's not good enough, sergeant. Not hardly good enough!"

"Yes, sir."

Sighing, the inspector sat back down on his chair and rested his head against his hand. "You may have just let slip the greatest criminal known to Milan, sergeant."

"Sir?"

The roar that the inspector gave next was heard across the station. "_He's done it again! He's just done it again! Half an hour ago, sergeant! Has everyone been blind?_"

* * *

><p>It was a truly remarkable place, Holmes thought. Color coded in light grays, white, and black. A piano was in the middle of the foyer, with books of music neatly organized by name of composer on the right side of the top of the piano. The rug underneath had a patch that was lighter than the rest of the rug, which indicates a stain was produced there, most likely caused by the near-empty bottle of red wine which was perched on the piano as well. Interesting.<p>

The curtains were dusted within the last week, and the windows cleaned. This was obviously the work of a maid, as a busy opera singer like Irene Adler would not have the time to do such things by herself. Obviously some tasks were done by her own hand, perhaps on the maid's day off. Or days.

From the distinctive piles of dirty and clean dishes in the scullery, he suspected three days absent.

He knew that this had happened before, and that Irene Adler had obviously befriended the maid, as no one would be this patient with a usual servant.

"Your room is over here," said she, taking his luggage, and opening the door at the left of the very end of the hall. Inside was a room with the feeling of gloom lurking through the air, seeping through the cracks in the wood of the unswept floor. They walked inside."Voila! I apologize for the dust, it has been a rather long time since we've had visitors."

"I should think four months," said Holmes, flicking dust off the windowsill with his finger and examining it. Irene Adler equated the amount of months it had been, but of course, there was no point.

"Your talents never fail to amaze me," she said. Suddenly, her face altered with realization, and her hands flew in the air as she ran outside the room. "Speaking of which..."

From his dark and empty room, Holmes heard the thud of a ladder, the clank of a door opening, the echoing stomps of traveling footsteps, a few miscellaneous noises, and the slamming crack of doom of a door falling shut. Moments later, Irene Adler came back into the room with a violin case coated in layers of dust.

"Until that night at the opera, I have only read about your virtuoso skill on the violin. Your fingers had graced my ears, even with a simple pit instrument. Would you do me the favor of gracing them again, with an instrument of which you deserve?"

Holmes opened the case, revealing a Stradivarius violin in top condition. He carefully picked it up and weighed it on his shoulder. As if something were missing, he looked around the case, picking up the bow in his right hand.

"This bow has no rosin," said he, soundlessly driving the bow back and forth on the strings, "and I fail to see any located in the case. I'm afraid that until I go to town tomorrow to acquire some, I can do nothing but tune and play pizzicato."

"Yes, I understand the concept of violins," said Irene. "Would you like to use my piano to tune? I always keep an eye on each individual key's pitch."

"That would be lovely, thank you." Holmes lifted the violin off his shoulder and carried it to the foyer, where Irene Adler sat on the piano bench and took turns tapping the G, D, A, and E notes on the piano as he did so on the violin.

It was about when the E string was semi-tuned when a note was silently pushed under the door. In usual circumstances, both observant minds would have immediately turned their attention towards the door. However, at the moment, they were both entwined with music, which acted as a barrier from the outside world, reflecting everything within, until the pitches were all correct.

It was about dawn, the next morning, when Holmes was awoken by a harsh knock upon his door. He fumbled out of bed and put on his robe, then swung open the door. Irene Adler, in her dressing gown, immediately stuck a letter out towards him.

"I was making tea when I found it pushed under the door. It is addressed to me, but the contents, I think, you will find most interesting. You were working on a case, recently?"

"Yes," mumbled Holmes, taking the letter and opening it. "'Consider yourself playing a crucial role in this streak of crime. At your next practice, you will understand.'"

"That's in a couple hours," said Irene.

"Hm." Holmes grabbed his morning pipe, and lit it.

"What are you thinking?" Irene watched him blow a few puffs out. He removed the tip from his lips and paused in thought.

"If my deductions are accurate, then perhaps it would be a good time to revisit Mr. Sigerson."

"I had hoped you would say so," said Irene, looking at her hands.

When she had looked back up, Holmes already had his beard and mustache on. "Oh, dear," he said, fiddling around his luggage.

"What is it? Is there something I can do?"

"Perhaps; if you would be so kind to allow me to use your makeup? My corpulent brother, whose reputation you may have read about, is doing an incredible job at making life harder for me than it already is. I believe that before I left the inn, his confederates stole into my possessions and took my facial paint as well as the usual items."

Irene Adler didn't dare ask further. "Of course... it's in my room," she said, with a blank face.

"Ah, thank you," said Holmes, walking out of the room while ruffling his hair, and to another down the hall. "This one, isn't it? May I go in?"

"Yes, you may," said Irene. "Erm, it's all on top of the dresser, with the mirror."

"I see it- thank you!"

Irene tried to not to laugh as this went on, and went to make more tea.

"Aha! I see that you have facial wax as well! Excellent!" said Holmes from her room. "Oh..."

His head stuck out of the room and turned to face her. "Would you be so kind as to casually get the latest paper? I believe there will be something rather interesting on the front page."

"I'm hardly dressed to be seen by everyone," said Irene, pouring the contents of the whistling kettle into two cups.

"And yet, here I am," said Sherlock Holmes, going back into the room.

Irene Adler put two cubes of sugar into her cup. "You don't count," she said under her breath, quietly, but loud enough for Holmes' sensitive ears to hear. "You're not like everyone else." He didn't respond, however.

"Alright, then," he finally said, after some time passed, with his disguise nearly complete. He walked out of the room as a different person, with a different voice, and different mannerisms. "I'll do it."

He subtly limped out the door. Irene began brushing her hair as her tea cooled. Maybe she could make them breakfast, as well. They had at least an hour and a half.

When Holmes came back with two papers, he found that there were two plates of eggs and toast on the table. "You didn't need to do that," he said, with his gruffy voice and cockney accent.

"Oh, didn't I?" said Irene, who was sitting down in the chair opposite Holmes', sipping a cup of tea. "Doctor Watson did write that you were stubborn when it came to eating. Hurry up before it gets cold."

Holmes tipped his hat and scraped the chair across the floor.

"Please don't feel obliged to stay in character," said Irene, pushing his food towards him. "For the sake of my floor."

"A thousand apologies," said Holmes. He removed his hat and smiled at her. "And thank you."

"And for the sake of my wall, as well, please do not get bored while carrying a shotgun," she added, as Holmes' fork was halfway to his mouth. It paused for a moment, but then continued on its path.

Irene glanced at the heading of the paper. "Oh, dear..." She worriedly played with her hands. "And you think it's connected to all this, even your last case?"

"I'm certain of it," said Holmes. "Somehow, it fits. If not, then I might as well retire and keep bees after all."

**'STAGEHAND HANGED AT OPERA HOUSE**

**NOTE FOUND'**


End file.
